“Miss Brown,” he greeted smoothly.
“Your Grace.”
The servants discreetly busied themselves elsewhere while tension stretched tightly between them. Charlotte folded her hands together before she lost courage entirely. “This engagement…Is this engagement real this time?”
Victor’s gaze held hers steadily. “Yes.”
The single word struck harder than she expected.
“No more pretending for your grandmother’s sake?” she pressed carefully.
“No.” His voice remained calm. “This is real.” Charlotte swallowed hard. Victor stepped slightly closer. “I am a man of my word. What happened at the ball should not have happened, and I intend to make it right.”
Her heart sank instantly.
Of course. He is marrying me because honor demands it. Because he had compromised my reputation and now felt obligated to repair the damage. Not because… he wants to marry me.
Relief should have been her strongest emotion. Instead, disappointment curled in her chest.
He does not want me.
Still, she lifted her chin calmly. “Very well.”
Something flickered strangely across his expression then. Perhaps he had expected tears or dramatics. Instead, Charlotte merely nodded politely. If this marriage would secure her sisters’ futures, then she would endure it.
Victor motioned toward the waiting carriage. “I shall visit once the special licence has been secured.”
“How efficient of you.”
“I try.”
Charlotte almost smiled. Almost.
The footman moved to open the carriage door, but Victor reached for her hand first. His fingers closed around hers with startling warmth. Then, before she could react, he lowered his mouth to her gloved knuckles.
The kiss lingered far too long.
Heat rushed instantly into Charlotte’s cheeks. She saw the faintest smirk tug at the corner of Victor’s mouth as though he knew precisely what effect he had on her. The insufferable man.
She suddenly wanted both to kiss him and strike him with a parasol.
“Safe travels, Charlotte,” he murmured softly.
Her breath caught slightly at the sound of her name on his lips. “Goodbye, Victor.”
His eyes darkened faintly at that.
Then Charlotte gathered the remains of her dignity and stepped into the carriage before she embarrassed herself further. As Mulford Manor disappeared behind her, she pressed trembling fingers against the spot on her glove where he had kissed her.
And I hate myself for wishing it had lasted longer.
CHAPTER 19
“Irefuse to wear pale yellow,” Joan declared, pointing accusingly at a swatch of silk. “It makes me look like weak custard.”
“It does not,” Irene argued at once. “It makes you look cheerful.”
Charlotte sat in the parlor of her uncle’s London townhouse whilst absolute chaos unfolded around her. Bolts of fabric had been draped over chairs, ribbons spilled from sewing baskets onto the carpet, and her sisters argued with the passion of generals preparing for war rather than ladies preparing for a wedding.
